


Bounty

by avocadomoon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And a parrot (natch), Captain Duckling, F/M, Pirates, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26353102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadomoon/pseuds/avocadomoon
Summary: "So tell your story, and even the field," Killian says, and leans back in his chair. "A business transaction. The business of trust, Emma Swan."
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68
Collections: Het Swap Exchange 2020





	Bounty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corina (CorinaLannister)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



"You could let me go," Emma says, and then thumps her head back against the wooden bedpost. "Shit." She clears her throat, trying again. "You _should_ let me go… _handsome_." 

"Terrible!" chirps the parrot. 

Emma shoots him a glare. "Thanks for the input." The handcuff around her wrist seems to tighten every time she pulls on it, so she holds it as still as possible as she readjusts her position on the floor, grimacing at the ache in her lower back. It's been almost four hours, and there's been no sign of the captain yet. Nothing but his parrot, anyway, which seems to be both extraordinarily intelligent (not unheard of, on a pirate's ship) and very cheerful about Emma's current predicament. 

"You're welcome!" screeches the parrot, and then begins to bounce up and down on his perch, his brightly-colored head weaving back and forth rhythmically. Emma narrows her eyes at it, suspicious. 

"Say," she says, "you don't happen to be a human trapped in a bird's body, or anything?"

"Ahoy!" the parrot replies. "Stowaway! Stowaway!"

Emma's face falls back into a scowl. "Yeah, thanks a lot for that, by the way. But they already caught me, so you can stop."

"Woman on the deck! Woman on the deck!"

"Ugh," Emma says, letting her head fall back against the bed again. At least they hadn't put her _on_ the bed, before they chained her to it. Not that that's a guarantee of her safety, in terms of this particular captain's motives (or inclinations), but at least on the floor Emma has a slightly better chance to fight him off, if he does intend to try anything. 

Also, if her plan is to flirt her way out of this - she feels slightly better having her boots on the ground while she does it. If she can charm (or trick) him into releasing her, Emma knows she's fast. She can run, and she can swim. Not the most brilliant - or complex - escape plan in the world, but it's better than _nothing._

She clears her throat, determined to practice. "Please sir," she mumbles, trying to strike the right balance between coquettish and frightened, " - my God, I sound like a sick child - please, sir! Please sir? _Please_ , sir, I didn't know this was a pirate ship. I was just exploring, and then I got scared when I heard your men, so I hid. Are you a gentleman, sir? Please don't hurt me." She attempts to bat her eyelashes, but only succeeds in getting one of them stuck in her eye. She curses, rubbing her face against her shoulder, her eye tearing up. She really is terrible at this. "Oh God, I'm so fucked."

"Fucked!" squawks the bird. "We're fucked, we're fucked!"

"Oh shut up," Emma snaps. 

On the other side of the door, something slams suddenly, and Emma jumps in surprise, snapping her mouth shut. Her hand jerks against the restraint, causing it to tighten even more, and she winces. The bird squawks again, a loud screech of noise, and flaps his wings, and then the door slams open, and the parrot screeches in surprise, jumping off the side of the bureau where he's been perched and flapping over to the desk, instead. "Ahoy! Ahoy!"

Emma winces again, her eyes glued to the doorway. The captain is there, outlined in shadow - younger than she'd assumed he'd be, but just as intimidating as the rumors about him claim. He's dressed like a sailor - thick leather and large boots, gloves on his hands, grease smeared beneath his eyes to protect him from the sun's glare off the water - but the rings on his hands and the jewelry around his neck mark him as a pirate, as does the sword at his hip. He's scowling, of course. Emma tenses, waiting for him to notice her, but his glare is focused on the parrot, and he seems to be leaning heavily against the door, his eyes half-lidded. 

"Please shut up," he says, and then pushes himself off the door with some effort. He's injured, Emma realizes with a thrill of relief - limping hard, which is why he'd slammed the door. He's wrestling with his sword, trying to unbuckle the holster one handed while his free hand supports his weight against the wall. "Don't think I won't shove you in the fire, you bloody - oh, what the fuck is this." He stops short, his eyes finally falling on Emma, still curled up on the floor, tied to the foot of his bed. "Who the bloody fuck are you?"

Emma gapes at him for a moment, thrown off. "Uh," she says, and then clears her throat, trying to adopt the frightened-but-seductive rabbit face she'd been practicing all afternoon. "Please, sir - are you - "

"Good God," the captain interrupts, looking appalled. He looks her up and down, his eyes narrowed. Emma looks at his hands, his bloody knuckles, tattoos creeping out from beneath the collar of his shirt, creeping up towards his neck. "Where did they find you? Don't answer that." He scowls, throwing his scabbard on the floor without even a second look. "I'm too fucking tired for this. Ralston!"

Emma jumps at his shout. "I was - sir, please, I was just exploring, and - "

"Stowaway!" squawks the bird, and Emma glares at it. 

The captain doesn't really seem to be listening. "Damn it, Ralston!"

Another pirate appears in the doorway, just as bloody and bedraggled looking. "Cap'n?"

"Did I ask for this?" the captain says, gesturing ostentatiously. Emma straightens up as best she can, sort of offended at the phrasing. "Who did this? I thought I told them to stay away from that bloody punch house - "

"Hey!" Emma interrupts. "I'm not - "

"Stowaway! Stowaway!"

"Shut up!" Emma yells in frustration, at the same time that the captain whirls on one heel and tosses his bloody leather glove with stunning accuracy, hitting the bird directly on the head. It squawks in offense, and flaps back up to the previous hiding spot on top of the bureau. 

"Ah," the other pirate says, clearing his throat. He's older - much more the type of pirate that Emma had been expecting to be the captain - with grey in his beard and a gravel to his voice that speaks to years of work, out in the salty air. "They did, sir. She stole onboard at the port just this morning, in Roserock Harbor. Smith and Dunhill must'a put her in here, sir, thinkin' you might be of mind to - "

"I am no prostitute!" Emma interrupts, her chin raised. "Sir, I am a lady, I was simply exploring, and when I heard your men I got scared and hid - "

"A stowaway," the captain says, still not really bothering to listen to her, it seems. Emma snaps her mouth shut and fumes a little. Her plan really is going all wrong. "Well, I don't want her. Take her to the brig."

"No!" Emma cries, and then her heart jolts, when both pirates turn to look. Both of them look faintly incredulous. "No, I - sir, please, I'm a lady, you see. I was...exploring, and - "

"Oh for fuck's sake, I can see the dagger strapped to your leg. Do shut up," the captain says, rolling his eyes. "Ralston, please do something about this, I'm liable to pass out where I stand - "

"You should've let May wrap your wound, sir!" Ralston says, almost chastisingly. "I know you're wary of magic but she really does work miracles, Cap'n, I swear you should'a seen Jimmo's hand before she got to it."

"I don't need a doctor, I just need a bloody nap," the captain says, sounding much more like one of the kids at the orphanage in the village than a fearsome pirate captain. The frustrated moue on his mouth, and the way he's rubbing his hair into a frenzy, doesn't do anything to dissuade Emma away from her impression, either. 

"I can help," she blurts, and then accidentally tugs on the restraint again, when they turn to stare at her once more. She winces; the strap is so tight around her wrist now that it's starting to cut off her circulation. "I was trained as a healer."

The captain eyes her skeptically. "You've got to be joking."

"I'm not," Emma says. The seduction plan was a terrible one anyway, she's horrid at honey traps. Taking a breath, she decides to wing it instead. Hasn't steered her wrong yet. "Look, I needed passage to Dunbroch. I met your first mate at a tavern in town and was negotiating a fair price, but he made advances towards me, and then stole my coin purse. So yes, I stole aboard, but it was only fair, considering. Don't you think?" She shoots them her best, winning smile. Neither man looks all that moved. "Bradley was his name. My plan was to get my coin back, at the very least, but then I overheard your crew talking and I decided to stowaway. I had my own food, and the journey to the Dire Forest is only six days, at most. I was going to leave you in peace, and find another ship to Dunbroch from there. That's the truth, Captain, I swear it."

The captain has been regarding her skeptically through her speech, still looking more exhausted than fearsome. At her oath, he rolls his eyes again, and sighs. "Fucking Bradley. He's not my first mate," he says, shaking his head. "Also dead now. Ralston, have we gone through his things yet?"

"No, sir," Ralston says. 

"Do so now. Find her purse." Emma looks at him, startled. "And bring us some food. Well, don't look at me like that, girl, would you prefer the brig?"

"I'm no girl," Emma counters, sticking her chin out again. 

"You look no older than nineteen, to my eyes," the captain says, one eyebrow raised. "And you're _certainly_ no lady."

Emma huffs, but keeps her mouth shut regardless. He's not wrong. 

"I'll bring ye some rum, for your wounds then," Ralston says, and the captain waves his hand irritably, limping heavily over to the chair at the desk. 

"Willow tree bark," Emma says, making both of them look at her again. "If you have some. It helps with the pain."

Ralston looks over at the captain skeptically, who laughs darkly, eyeing her up and down again. 

"Willow tree? My girl, this is a pirate ship," he says, easing out of his coat. Emma's eyes fall on another wound at his shoulder, a shallow stab wound that must be from a dagger or a sword. "You really are something, aren't you? Now, Ralston."

"Aye, sir," the other man says, and disappears. The door stays wide open, to Emma's faint relief. 

Emma watches him warily, now that they're alone, but he makes no move towards her. With considerable effort, he pulls open one of the heavy drawers of the desk, and retrieves a large, bound book that has to be some kind of ledger. A bottle of ink emerges next, and Emma watches with skepticism as the captain uses a blunt chunk of wood to write, scrawling something that has to be near-illegible in the pages. 

He's also ignoring her entirely, which makes her chin lift again. She clears her throat loudly, just to see what he will do, but he doesn't react. 

"Sir," she says after a moment. His head twitches slightly, but he keeps scribbling, his brow furrowed. "I can read and write, too. If that would be useful to you."

"Ah, so you _are_ a lady," the captain replies, not looking up. "A ruined one, perhaps?"

Emma snorts. "I told you I was trained as a healer. You need to read to do that."

"Not necessarily." Apparently satisfied with whatever it was that he was writing, he tosses the inky chunk of wood aside and lets the book lay open on the surface of the desk to dry. He turns in the chair, again with a pained grimace, and regards her. "I don't believe you."

"Well, that's your problem," Emma counters, and his mouth twitches. "I lived with a surgeon for several years. He taught me many things. No formal education, of course, but I can make myself useful."

"Husband?" the captain asks. 

Emma feels her face do something complicated and emotional, against her will. In response, his eyebrow lifts again. "No."

"Alright." He smirks. "We have a healer already. And I can read and write myself, I have no use for a secretary." He pauses. "We'll take you as far as the Dire Forest, in repayment for what Bradley took from you. I don't think I need to tell you that your coin is likely long gone."

"That's fair, and all I can expect," Emma says, feeling a little heady from relief. "Shall I thank you, or would that cause offense? I've never known any pirates before; I'm unsure of the courtesies."

He laughs, and Emma startles violently at the sound. He's just so young, she marvels again. All the rumors about him, the stories she'd eavesdropped on at the tavern, had never mentioned how young he was. But he can't be much older than she is, she notes with amazement. There are no wrinkles in his face, no gray in his hair. The fearsome _Captain Hook_ \- a man of what, twenty and five, at most? Impossible. "You may treat me with as much courtesy as you wish, and I will endeavor to return it to you with equal effort. Pirates are businessmen, you see. Not unreasonable. You listen to too many stories, I think."

"Probably," Emma agrees sensibly. She tugs on the restraint again, accidentally, as she adjusts her position on the floor once more. A sharp pain shoots down her arm, and she grimaces. "Not to overextend your hospitality any further, sir, but - this handcuff, it's - "

"Yes, yes," the captain says, waving his hand. "Ralston will be back any moment. Magic," he mutters resentfully, eyeing the cuff around her wrist with resentment. "More harm than good."

"Tell me about it," Emma mutters. To her surprise, he laughs again. He sounds almost pleasant. 

Ralston returns with several things: a large dry biscuit, a hunk of salted meat, a spelled knife, and a flagon of rum so large he has to drag it in behind him with one hand. Then he holds Emma at gunpoint while the captain takes her dagger (and no liberties, to her relief) and cuts her loose. Not wanting to fuck up the deal she's just struck - a much better ending to this situation than having to escape overboard - Emma sits quietly and follows their gruff orders, allowing the captain to pat her down for weapons without a single word. She's then ushered to the corner, where she's given a hunk of biscuit and meat, but no rum. Naturally. 

"We have no spare quarters for you," the captain says, waving Ralston away, who looks like he wants to protest, but leaves without argument after a long, measured look at Emma. "And the crew thinks you're a prostitute. You'll be safest in here."

"Will I?" Emma says neutrally, gnawing on the dry bread. It's not the worst she's ever had to eat, but it's certainly not the best, either. "You would trust me to stay here while you sleep?"

"No," the captain says, with a quirk to his mouth. "I don't sleep in here. I intend to lock you in."

"Ah," Emma says. 

"Too ostentatious for my taste." He waves his hand at the thick curtains, the expensive sheets that look like they came straight from some lord or duke's bed. "This was an admiral's ship, before we took it. I only use this room occasionally." He pauses. "For entertaining."

Emma snorts, before she can stop herself. 

He glances at her briefly, looking dryly amused. "Best learn to hold your tongue, and control that face, if you're going to get by in Dunbroch. They take offense much faster than the folk of Misthaven."

"I can control my face," Emma counters, with her mouth full. He glances at her again, definitely amused now. 

"As you say." He grunts, pouring himself another gulp of rum. His ankle is clearly sprained, she can tell that clear as day, but the wound on his shoulder looks worse. Infected, most likely, if he doesn't clean it properly. Emma takes his advice, though, and bites her tongue. "What's your name?"

"Swan," Emma says. 

He levels her with another skeptical look. "As you say," he repeats, and sloshes some of the rum onto his shoulder wound. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he does it again, then downs the rest of it and dabs the cut dry with his free hand. 

"Better to use hot water," Emma says, not able to help herself. "Cleaner."

"Can't spare any," he says tightly, his teeth still clenched. "Mind your manners, Swan. Keep your eyes to yourself."

A little stung by the rebuke, Emma turns away, busying herself with the food. Still, his grunts of pain are distracting. "For God's sake, I can _help._ You took my dagger - what is it that you think I'm going to do?"

He scoffs bitterly, a short, harsh exhalation of air. "Stay over there, girl."

"I gave you my name, quit calling me 'girl,'" Emma grumbles, setting the food carefully aside. She rises to her feet, hands outheld in front of her, eyeing his gun, which he's risen halfway in warning. "You told me you were reasonable, Captain, so be reasonable. You're treating me with respect, you haven't harmed me even though you had cause to, so I have no reason to harm _you_. What would I do, if I overpowered you anyway? _Swim_ to the Dire Forest?"

He glares at her, but lowers his gun. "Keep your hands visible."

"As you wish," Emma says, and walks over cautiously. She feels nervous, a bit out of sorts, beneath his careful gaze; she can't honestly remember the last time a man looked at her so directly, and openly. Emma's made a habit of making herself not very nice to look at, and for good reason. "I'm just going to clean and wrap it. Without any medicine it's the best we can do for now. Can I use this?" She gestures towards the bedsheets, and he hesitates briefly, but nods. "I'll need the knife to cut off a strip."

"Might as well take my gun, too," he grumbles, but shoves the dagger back towards her resentfully. Emma grips it easily, already feeling more secure with the familiar weapon in her hand, but the gun is back up, pointing at her head. "Peace of mind," he explains, bracing himself against the desk. He's sweating at the hairline, clearly in pain, but his eyes are clear. Emma nods, and keeps the dagger pointed away from him, moving quickly with her body positioned so that he can see her hands. 

"You'll need to change this when it soaks through," Emma says, moving slowly, like she's approaching a wounded animal. His breath is labored, and he flinches every so often when she pulls the sheet across the jagged edges of the wound, but he doesn't make a sound. It doesn't surprise Emma that he's used to pain. "Clean it regularly. If it gets infected you're fucked."

"Fucked! Fucked!" squawks the parrot. Both of them jump. 

"Shut up," the captain says, shooting the bird a dark look. It squawks again, and disappears into the dark corner between the bureau and the wall. "Annoying fucking thing."

"Thought he was your pet," Emma comments mildly, tying the sheet tight around his shoulder. He winces again, but doesn't comment. 

"Inherited that too," he says, "along with the room." He pauses, moving his arm back and forth a little, testing her knot. "This is better. Thank you."

"Welcome," Emma says, satisfied. 

"You've a soft heart, Miss Swan."

"Just Swan," Emma corrects, and reaches out to grab the empty cup he'd been using for the rum, "and not so soft. Just opportunistic, some have said. May I?"

He laughs, waving her towards the flagon on the ground with a nod. Emma grins and pours herself a generous amount. 

They eat there together in silence, still a wary length apart, but a bit more relaxed, now that the ice has been broken. Emma's well-used to the rocking and swaying of the ship by now, but the addition of rum and food to her empty stomach still makes her feel a bit more solid. She hadn't realized, before, how hungry she was. They'd found her almost as soon as they left shore, and she's not sure what had happened to her stash of food. 

"Orphan," the captain says eventually, breaking the uneasy, yet calm, silence. He gestures at her clothing with the last hunk of the biscuit in his hand. "Barmaid?"

"Of a sort," Emma says, chewing slowly. Her heart clenches momentarily, thinking of the tavern, which she's not likely to ever see again. She grits her teeth through it, though, and takes another bite. 

"What awaits you in Dunbroch?" He's looking at her keenly, out of the corner of his eye. Curiously. 

"A fiance," Emma says. 

He laughs like he knows she's lying. "Lucky girl."

"Very rich. He would've sent a ship for me but it's a secret," Emma says, just arrogantly enough that it has a chance of sounding true. "His parents don't approve. I'm meant to meet him at the inn on Loch Lubnaig, and we're going to elope."

"Quite a story," the captain replies, eyes sparkling. "I do wish you luck."

"Thank you," Emma says primly, gnawing off another bite of meat. "So what happened, while I was tied up down here? I could hear the fighting."

"Bradley and I had a difference of opinion," the captain says, shooting her a look. "You're welcome."

"Did he mutiny?"

"He tried," the captain says simply. "Don't worry. The crew is under my control. He barely had any support."

The man Emma had met at the tavern had seemed the type to do that - take the leap before he knew he had a place to land. Being that sort herself, Emma had fancied herself capable of handling him. The benefit of hindsight, and all that. "Well, congratulations," she says. "I'll tell stories of your bravery and valor in battle, in Dunbroch."

"I'd prefer if you didn't," the captain replies dryly, leaning back in his chair. He's allowed her to keep the single cup for her rum, and to her surprise, he doesn't seem impatient to have it back. A pirate captain who isn't thirsty? The stories really did have him all wrong. "What's his name?"

"Who?"

"Your fiance," the captain says, a bit condescendingly. 

Emma scowls. "None of your business."

He laughs. "Alright," he says, "was going to suggest we toast to him, but I suppose if he's rich, he doesn't need our well wishes."

"Handsome too," Emma says, unable to help herself. The rum has loosened her tongue. Not that it was ever that tight to begin with. She's always getting herself into trouble that way. "How old are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You look young," Emma says. She squints at him, and he laughs again, eyeing her with good humor now, his gun pushed aside on the desk. "All the stories about you - I thought you'd be older. I was dreadful worried you were going to hurt me, you know."

"Well you're no lady," the captain says, tilting his head at her, "but you're still a lady. My mother would roll over in her grave if I mistreated you so."

"I've heard awful stories about young ladies left alone with sailors. Many of the patients at the surgeon's were ruined women."

"You're thinking of the Navy," the captain says. "Pirates are a sight more civilized, in my experience."

Emma laughs, and the sound breaks open the air between them, like a window opening. She startles herself, with how cheerful the sound is. "Having met a few Navy men, I'm inclined to believe you."

"Especially the Misthaven Navy," the captain says, with some measure of seriousness. "Best to avoid that lot altogether."

"You're full of advice, Captain. Some might say it's gentlemanly of you."

"Some would, while others would disagree," he says, and reaches over to gently slide the now-empty cup out of her hand. "I reckon you've had enough, Swan. You're flushed."

"No," she says, but he's right, of course. She lifts her hand to her cheek, feeling her face go even redder than before. "You didn't answer my question."

"Question?"

"How old you are."

"Ah." He refills the cup for himself, and the weird intimacy of it, sharing the same cup, makes Emma's stomach quiver. "Twenty and eight, I suppose. Haven't kept track that closely, these past few years."

Emma mulls that over, bracing herself against the wooden wall. The motion of the ship is comforting, somehow, even while her head spins from the rum. Stronger than the swill they served at the tavern, that's for sure. "You know what they say about you."

"Pray tell," he says, and takes a long, deep drink of the alcohol. Emma watches a thin line of liquid run down the long stretch of his neck, and then jerks her eyes away, her stomach twisting even harder. 

"Captain Hook," she says, relatively confident that he's not going to turn violent by now. Pirate captain or not, she can tell a gentle man from a brutal one, and this man is not a brute. "They say you murdered the governor of Tortuga with a hook, which is how you got your name. You raid slave ships and free the prisoners. You steal from anyone who flies a royal flag. And you once kidnapped the wife of the Dark One, and used mermaid magic to make her fall in love with you."

He stares at her for a long second, his eyes dark, before his face cracks open in a grin. "Do they say all that?"

"And more."

"I can see why I surprised you, then. The man you just described doesn't sound like pleasant company at all."

She glances at his left hand, which is disfigured from an old wound, obviously an attempt at amputation. Half his thumb is missing, and his first two fingers are twisted oddly, an ugly scar bisecting the back of his palm. She wonders if the 'hook' moniker is because of that injury, exaggerated and blown out of proportion until it reached preposterous, campfire tale levels. "Is any of it true?"

He shrugs in reply, grinning at her in amusement. 

"Come now," Emma says, rolling her eyes, "you may be the first pirate of my acquaintance but I know you lot like to tell stories. I've seen enough of your kind blow through the tavern."

"Then I'm not the first," he says.

"Sorry?"

"First of your acquaintance," he says, still grinning. "If you've heard a pirate tell a story, that means he liked you."

"Just because he told me a story doesn't mean we were acquainted," Emma says. "Slopping some stew into a bowl for a man doesn't make him my friend."

"So you are a barmaid," he replies, triumphantly. Emma rolls her head back against the wall of her ship, rolling her eyes dramatically, and he laughs. "I knew it. You have the disposition, if you don't mind me saying."

"Is that a compliment?" Emma wonders out loud. 

"If you like."

"Then it is," she decides, and he laughs again. She decides also, right there on the spot, that she rather likes making him laugh. "Will you tell me a story? In return for my work," she says, gesturing at his wound.

"I thought the food was my repayment," he teases gently. He's much less intimidating now, smiling like that, the grease wiped off by his hands, leaving messy streaks of black beneath his eyes. He reminds Emma of an owl, big eyes and a proud profile. "And passage to the Dire Forest, in return for what my crewman stole from you."

"Is he still your crewman, even though he mutined?"

"A captain takes responsibility for everything that comes from his ship," he replies, "good, bad, or otherwise."

An admirable stance. An admirable _pirate_. Perhaps Emma is foolish to trust it, but he has the demeanor of a gentleman, and she's only human. She knows she's young, and a bit naive - Victor had certainly told her that enough times, before he died - but she trusts her instincts. They've never steered her wrong before. "A true story then," she says, leaning forward to retrieve his empty cup. She still moves slowly, seeing him tense suddenly at her movement, but he seems to relax in the next moment, as she refills it from the flagon for him, setting it gently back down next to his wrist. "As a sign of trust."

"You'd rather have one of my stories, than my name?" the captain says. 

"Names are just words," Emma says. "You can change them. Alter them. They don't mean much, or say much, about who a person is. But a story…" she shrugs, making herself comfortable in her little spot against the wall. "That's much more valuable."

"Very wise."

"I have my moments," Emma says, and gives him another one of her best smiles. This time, it works. 

He regards her very seriously for a moment, tapping the knuckles of his uninjured hand against the side of his leg. Emma meets his gaze head-on, something she would rarely do with a man, as it often invites and implies things that Emma doesn't intend to invite or imply. With this man, in this moment though, it feels alright. Feels honorable. 

"Very well," he says, and picks up his drink. 

_My father was a criminal, and my mother - a fallen woman. She was born into the nobility, but my grandfather gambled away his fortune, and then his daughter's virtue in an attempt to get it back. He died in disgrace - may he burn in hell - and my mother fled the county, and soon after that, she met my father in a tavern. Good places to meet people, those taverns. I'm sure you've witnessed the beginnings of quite a few marriages yourself._

_She was a good woman, my mother. She gave birth to my older brother, and then me, and then a third boy, who was delivered stillborn. My brother often said that the grief killed her, and I believe it. From what I remember of her, she was gentle, sweet. Sensitive, almost like a child. She did her best to be stern with us - two rambunctious boys, giving her more trouble than we were worth - but we overwhelmed her. She fell sick and died in the summer of my ninth year. My older brother Liam was fifteen._

_My father did not live with us, in fact I hardly remember him being around, before she died. He was a smuggler, so he was often away at sea. We managed to keep our little farm afloat for about a year before he returned - and when he found out she'd died, and that we'd been running it on our own, he was furious. He sold our cow and our chickens and all our crops, and then sold our cottage too, and all our mother's jewelry. The books she'd brought with her, that belonged to our grandmother. Most of our clothes, our farming tools. Even the flowers from the garden. And then when there was nothing left in the house to sell, he sold us._

_They came in the middle of the night, the slavers. They took my brother first - he was bigger and stronger, they knew he would put up a fight, I could hear him yelling. But I was too frightened to fight back - I was small for my age, sheltered. My mother's favorite. I had no idea what was happening until it already had, and by then it was too late. My father was too cowardly to show his face, of course. I didn't see him again until many, many years later._

_I was sold to a rich family in the capitol first, and I lived with them for a time. The mother was kind to me, but the father was not, and after my first whipping, I tried to run away. This did not work; they only whipped me again. Then I was sold to another family, a younger couple with proclivities I dare not mention in your presence, Swan, or in the presence of any lady. I ran away from them, too, and I managed to stay free for much longer that time. They tracked me down in Agrabah, and I served two years hard labour for my escape. I counted myself lucky, in all honesty - if they'd sent me to prison I surely would've died. Slaves did not last long in Agrabah's prisons, especially back then._

_Liam found me not much longer after that, when I was indentured to a Naval captain who served the King and Queen of Misthaven. He had been sold to a Navy man himself, and earned his freedom not long after that, and had been searching for me ever since. A wild stroke of luck, really, that he was visiting the ship I was serving on with his battalion. If he'd delayed even a few hours, we would've left port, and missed each other entirely. We likely would not have met again, but met we did, and it was by far the most God has ever done for me in my life. I suppose everyone gets at least one blessing from above, and I reckon that day was mine._

_He bought my freedom right there on sight, and I enlisted to serve on his ship, which is where I spent many years. Good years, I must say. Liam was promoted to captain, and I his lieutenant. We were making a living, working together honestly. I could've had a very happy life like that, and sometimes I wish it were still so. I do miss him dearly, as you can probably tell. He was very stubborn, and quite arrogant, and a horrible piquet player, but he was my brother and I loved him. Now, don't look so sad - he's in a better place now. Much better than down here with us, in this hellish, earthly place. Do you believe in God, Swan? No? Well, neither do I. But I believe in Heaven, and it's mostly because I know Liam must have ended up there._

_It was the Queen who killed him, Queen Regina, not long after the coup d'etat that landed her on the throne of Misthaven. Not personally, but I hold her accountable for it regardless. We'd served Queen Eva and her consort for many years, and they were fair enough people I suppose, for royals anyway, but Regina was something entirely different. She was waging war against the Dark One, and Liam - despite his moral objections - was a soldier through and through. There were many battles that we did not feel good about fighting at all, but he didn't have the stomach to desert. I tried - oh, how I tried! - to convince him, but he would not hear me. Could not hear me, perhaps, by virtue of the man he was. Anyway, he died. I will spare you, and myself, the details._

_His men were loyal to him, because he_ was _a good man, and so when I raised the black flag, most of them followed. We were terrible pirates at first - too used to the military - but we had the occasion to learn, from the man that you know as Captain Hook. His real name was Whit - he never gave me his surname, but I suppose it doesn't matter - and the man that he learned from was named Jonson. The man before that, I believe was called Benjamins - but you get the idea. Now I'm not altogether sure where 'Hook' comes from, but it does sound very fearsome, doesn't it? A pirate's reputation is everything. Whit was kind enough to pass it on to me, just as Jonson had done for him, many years ago._

_I can see your surprise. I saw it too, when you noticed how young I was. More secrets! Open secrets, but secrets nonetheless. Do you trust me yet, Swan? Enough to give me your first name? I'll give you mine, if that will help: my mother named me Killian. Killian Jones, and I'm a son of Tiree Isle. My mother's name was Aileen Caimbeulach, and her sister - who held onto her honor, in spite of my grandfather - married a nobleman, and their sons now hold a sizeable amount of land in Dunbroch - yes, of all coincidences - which is why I cannot take you all the way there. I make them nervous, you see. One can understand their hesitance, because nowadays, most people just call me Hook._

_Is Swan a surname, or a nickname? You certainly seem graceful enough to have earned it. Fierce enough, certainly. Do you turn into a swan at night, when the moonlight falls upon your skin? Well, I suppose I will find out. Won't I?_

"Queen Regina was deposed almost twenty years ago," Emma says, quietly, humbled by the story, which rang of complete truth, as fantastic and sad as it was. This is another instinct of Emma's - she can always tell when people are lying. _Always._ And this man is not - she knows that in her bones. "Snow White and Prince David took back their throne when I was just a baby. Their son Leo is almost grown now, he'll become king on his twentieth birthday."

The captain - Killian - shrugs. "Don't much keep up with local news," he says. 

"But you - you said you're only twenty and eight! How is that possible, if what you say is true you should be twice as old, at least!"

"Secrets, my dear. Didn't I say?" He drains the last of his rum. "You can't possibly expect me to cram everything into one story. I have to keep something for the next one."

Emma narrows her eyes at him. "Are you magic?" she asks. "I don't like magic."

" _I'm_ not magic, no," Killian replies. "Are you?"

Emma shakes her head. "Absolutely not," she says, shivering like she always does, when she tells a lie herself. 

He seems to be able to tell, in an uncomfortably perceptive fashion. "As you say." He sets the empty cup upside down on top of the rum flagon, as if signaling that the time for drinking is done. "If I guess your name, may I then use it?"

"No," Emma says absently, still processing his story. 

"Mary." She frowns at him, halfway offended. "No? How about...Gertrude? Arabella. Cordelia - "

"Emma," Emma blurts, not meaning to tell him until the word is already out there, in the air between them. He sits back, absorbing the gesture with the gravity it deserves, his face thoughtful. 

"Emma," he repeats, looking at her. "It suits you."

"Thank you," Emma says, still faintly suspicious. "Are you cursed?"

He laughs. "No. Are you?"

"Yes," Emma says, and he blinks. "That's not a lie. I am."

"A dangerous thing for a woman on a ship full of pirates to say," Killian replies, eyeing the open door. "What sort of curse?"

"A memory curse," Emma says. She gestures at the rum flagon. "If I give you a true story too, can I have some more rum?"

In reply, he silently refills the cup and hands it over. It drips a little on her knees as she bends forward to take it, and their hands brush. He smells like blood and iron, and salt water, but of course that's probably what she smells like too, by now. It sends a weird thrill down her spine, the thought of becoming part of this ship - changing it with her presence, and being changed in return. 

"I trust you, you know," Emma says. "Because of that story. It's a dangerous thing for me to do - trusting."

"So tell your story, and even the field," Killian says, and leans back in his chair. His wound has stopped bleeding, but Emma can still smell it. "A business transaction. The business of trust, Emma Swan."

"Alright," Emma says, and takes a bracing sip. It burns all the way down, but that's what she'd needed, to start talking. 

_My mother was a fallen woman too, at least in one sense of the word. Her birthright was stolen from her by a rival, and that's all I'm going to tell you about that. My father was in a similar position, and I'm told they found comfort in each other because of it. When they had me, they were pretending to be farmers, but really they were bandits. They stole from the same nobles who once paid them tax money each year for the land they owned. I suppose they felt like they deserved it._

_They took back their house and their lands and their positions by force, and by the time I was three years old, it was if none of that had ever happened. The people welcomed them back, and that was that, it seemed. But the rival that they defeated - she wasn't dead, just beaten back. Exiled from their lands. And she was a sorceress - a powerful one. And when I was four years old, she cursed me. She sent a man named Graham to steal me out of my bed. He used to be a hunter, but she stole his heart and kept it in a jewelry box, and so he became her servant instead. So I guess we're not so different, you and I - we were both stolen. The main difference is that my parents are very much still alive._

_I was kept in a house in the woods for a little while, watched over by Graham - the same house where my mother was living when she met my father. Poetic justice, I guess. I don't remember a whole lot from that time - I was just a girl, and I was scared. Graham was kind to me, but I knew he would do me harm, if she told him to. He didn't have a choice - she controlled his body, his will, everything. I remember seeing her do things to him that - well. I'm sure you can imagine._

_She wanted my parents to grieve for me, to think me dead, but my mother was a strong person, and she had many friends. Friends who had magic, too. So they kept searching for me, and eventually it was decided that the only way to keep me from my mother permanently was to erase me, so that's what she did. It's a curse that steals a person right out from someone's heart. A curse that makes it like you never existed at all. And so my parents forgot me - not by choice, mind you. I know that they loved me, that they searched for me, so that's something, I guess. It was comforting to me, when I was younger, that if they knew, they would be sad that I was gone. But they don't remember me now - nobody does. Every single person who knew me as I was, before I was taken, none of them remember. I am dead, in that sense. She killed me in every real sense of the word._

_Her plan was to raise me herself, to teach me to be like her, to be evil. She wanted me to hate my parents - tried to tell me that they'd given me up willingly. I suppose the plan was for me to grow up and be like her, to attack them as an adult, and that would bring her some satisfaction - to watch my mother be defeated by her own daughter, and she would be the only one who would know. But Graham - poor, heroic Graham - he saved me. He'd been trying for years to get his heart back, to escape her magic, but he knew she would never let him go. She'd eaten his heart, you see. Just gobbled it down one day, so he would belong to her completely - there was no escaping, then. I was seven, and she made me watch. It was the most terrible thing I'd ever seen, and nothing else I've witnessed - no matter how bad, and working in a tavern - trust me, I've seen bad - has compared to that horror since._

_So he had nothing to lose. That was the part she missed, that she didn't see. He gave me some money, and this dagger - yes this one right here - and helped me leave the woods. Then he dug up a body - a little girl, the daughter of some farmers who had died recently - and mutilated her body with his axe, and brought it back and said it was mine. He told her he murdered me. Horrible, yes, but it saved my life. She killed him on the spot, which I think was a relief, for him._

_What did you say before? That you don't believe in God, but you believe in Heaven? I like that. Graham is up there too, if it exists. Despite everything he did, I think he is. Does the measure of a man include the things he's forced to do? Surely, if Heaven is fair at all, it doesn't. The true nature of someone's heart should be taken fairly in Heaven, because it almost never is down here on Earth. Don't you think?_

_She's dead now too, and it makes me angry sometimes that I wasn't the one to kill her. I deserved to be the one to kill her. But Victor - that was the surgeon I lived with, he found me not long after I escaped and took me in - he always said that revenge rots hearts much faster than any dark magic, and I guess he's right. I suppose what I'm really angry about is that she died before lifting my curse. I can never go home now, and that's...well, it is what it is. I do alright on my own, and it's not as if I remember much about my parents. I was so young when I was taken, they're more like daydreams to me than people. But I would've liked to have the option, you know? Yes, I can see that you understand._

_I didn't lie about being trained as a healer. Victor was sick, he - most people thought he was mad. I could always talk to him, though, he would listen to me, and I could put up with his moods. He was a good man, despite what most people thought, and we got along - I think I needed to be with someone who nobody else liked. I needed to be with someone who needed protecting, too, and he sure needed a lot of that. He would make his own medicines, and then test them on himself. He brought dead things back to life, and scared everyone away with his temper. It was a good life, living with him. He was like a father to me - a weird, scary father, who kept forgetting my name. But I loved him. I was very sad when he died._

_I'm going to Dunbroch to steal something, I suppose you should know that now, too. Isn't it funny, how things always seem to run in circles? I got robbed on my way to rob someone. Sort of poetic. It's nothing to do with my curse, or my parents, it's - it's to do with Victor. It's something he always wanted to finish, and he died before he got the chance, and I'm the only person who knew him well enough to finish it for him. So that's what I intend to do - finish his work. It's nothing evil - at least, in my estimation of what true evil is. And I've seen true evil, Captain. I lived with it for ten years. But it is a little weird, and scary, and too dangerous to ask for help with. So I suppose you'll just have to trust me on this one._

_I guess I should call you Killian now. It's a nice name - but I can tell why you don't tell people right away. Dead giveaway, that you were born in Dunbroch. Another circle, huh? Yes, you can call me Emma. We might as well, now that we know each other. I'm as surprised as you are._

"Hm," says Killian. The look on his face is making Emma a little uncomfortable. 

"That's all you have to say? 'Hm?'"

"Just a noise I make sometimes," he says, nonchalantly. He's watching her carefully, as she drinks the last of her rum. When she finishes the last gulp, he leans forward and takes it from her hand, refilling it for himself. Emma supposes they're taking turns, now. "Some questions I had were just answered, I might say."

"Questions about me?" Emma asks, alarmed. She thought she'd been rather clever, talking around the finer details. Leaving out names. 

"Yes. Quite the tale. Very exciting. You're quite dashing, you know," he says, waving his cup at her. It occurs to Emma that he might be a little drunk too. "In your pantaloons, and that silly cap on your head. You look like a servant boy."

"And yet your men thought I was a prostitute."

"Not all of them wear dresses, you know. In fact, most of them don't."

"I know that," Emma says, rolling her eyes. "But we're in Misthaven. Everything's so _respectable_ here. Don't the prostitutes all dress up in finery, and work out of proper brothels and everything?"

Killian laughs. "You haven't been here that long, have you?"

Well, no, she hasn't. She hasn't been here since the night Graham sneaked her over the border, in fact. The last six weeks at the tavern have been illuminating in some ways, and frustrating in others. She gets attached very quickly, and it was easy to do so, with Ruby and her gran - kind people, who were friendly to Emma for friendliness's sake. But she hasn't had much opportunity to immerse herself in the _culture,_ to say the least. 

He doesn't seem to require a reply from her, to that question. "And what is your plan, to get to Dunbroch from the Dire Forest? You can't possibly think to cross by land. The ogres in the mountains are much less friendlier than I."

"Hire another ship," Emma says with a shrug. Her head feels floaty, the cuts and scrapes on her hands from hiding in the cargo bay aren't stinging anymore. Sitting on the hard floor isn't bothering her back anymore, either. "Maybe I'll find another pirate captain to make friends with."

"Friends," Killian says, pronouncing the word like he's never heard it before. She laughs, looking at his face. "Well, that's...something."

"You really were born a hundred years ago, weren't you?" Emma says, still laughing. "You remind me of the old nobles that used to come to Victor's to buy youth serum. All 'thee and thou' and shaking their feathered caps, 'my good lady Emma,' is what they used to call me - "

"Excuse me," he says, slurring a little. The look on his face is good-natured, though. Yes - an admirable pirate, a gentle man. Deceptively young, but not really young at all. Emma could learn a lot from him. "I'm not _that_ old."

"My mistake," Emma murmurs, amused. She's looking at his throat again. She can't really help it. 

"A proposition for you then," he says, finishing off his turn with the rum cup, bracing himself against the table to refill it for her. "An idea, if you will. My good lady." He smirks at her, and their hands brush again, as she takes the drink. "If you tell me what it is that you mean to steal, perhaps I might have some information that would assist you in that endeavor. I was born in Dunbroch, as you now know. I know the nobles there, even the ones I'm not related to."

"I don't know that I trust you that much yet," Emma says. 

"Fair enough. Would you like another story then?"

"No," Emma says honestly, taking a bracing sip, and then setting it aside. "I feel as if I already know you. Do you feel the same way?"

He squints at her knees, poking out through the worn fabric of her trousers. "Yes," he says, at length, looking suddenly not very drunk at all. 

"Then a kiss. A kiss, for some information," Emma says, feeling very brave, and very faint, like she often does before she leaps without knowing where she'll land. "Just in case something funny's happened to us. Perhaps we're married, and we've been cursed to forget each other. Or maybe we're sworn enemies that fell in love and lost our memories in a shipwreck. You never know."

Killian is regarding her very seriously, one palm spread flat on the desk between them. It occurs to Emma that she never asked what he'd been writing in that big book. It occurs to her as well that she really wants to know. "My girl," he says, "you do not owe me that. I am not the sort of man who takes such a thing from a woman as a _payment_."

"I know that," Emma says, just as serious, because she does know, somehow. "I'm asking. Do you hear me? Do you trust me? I'm asking you for something, and you can say yes or no. It's that simple, Captain."

His mouth firms, and his jaw works back and forth, and for a moment Emma thinks she might've made him angry. But then he looks at her up and down again, in a very different way than he'd been looking before. Emma feels hot all over, inside and out, she feels seen in a way she hasn't ever felt before. All her life, she's lived in shadow - hidden away, locked up in a cottage in the woods, on the run, tucked away in a mad scientist's tower, in disguise, serving grog three miles away from the royals who'd forgotten her. She's never felt like she belonged anywhere, like she even existed really, in any real way. The feeling is new and almost painful, of being regarded by a man who makes her feel like this. Like a woman who lives in the world. Like a person worthy of regard. Like she's a person, at all. 

"Come here," he says quietly, after the moment has stretched out and quieted. Emma feels her stomach lurch pleasantly, and her hands tremble, with excitement and something else, perhaps adrenaline. "Easy. Keep your hands where I can see them, Swan."

"Still don't trust me?" Emma says, breathless. She kneels in front of his chair, and touches the wrist, the one with his injured hand, very gently. She can smell the rum on his breath, and on her own as well. 

"You seem like the type to take liberties," he says, which is true. Emma smiles at him, and his face changes. "Oh, you are beautiful." He sounds like he's talking to himself. 

"Thank you," Emma says anyway. She touches his face, his rough beard. There's a scar beneath the hair, right by his lower lip, and she traces it with her thumb just to see his reaction. He shudders a little, almost imperceptibly, and looks her in the eye. "I suppose you are rather vulnerable, at the current moment."

"No better sign of trust than that," he agrees. He hasn't reached out to touch her in return - perhaps he doesn't trust himself. Emma feels a twist in her gut that might be excitement. "Was this your plan all along? I should check my own coin purse, in the morning."

"Actually, yes," Emma confesses, "I was going to try. When I thought you would be old and mean, my plan was to flirt with you and then escape. But this is much better, I think. The honest version."

"Honest," he repeats, looking dazed.

"An honest exchange," Emma says, staring at his mouth. "I'm not talking any sense, Captain. Kiss me already."

"As you wish," he says, and leans forward. Emma takes a breath, just a quick one, before her mouth becomes occupied. Then it promptly freezes in her throat. 

She has the immediate sense that she's kissed this man before, somehow, and yet she also knows she hasn't, with the same mysterious instincts that tell her when someone is lying. His beard is rough against her chin, but his mouth is soft, and her whole body feels frozen and warm, all at once. She touches his neck - damp with sweat and rum - and feels his adam's apple beneath her thumb. Her head is spinning. She wants him to touch her too, but his hands stay determinedly put, pressed tightly against the arms of his chair. She wants to climb into his lap and rub herself against him. She wants him to put his hands down her trousers, up her blouse, she wants him to bend her over the desk and bite the back of her neck. She wants to be naked in that bed, she wants his face between her legs. She wants to tell him her mother's name, she wants to know what happened to him to keep him immune from time. She wants to tell him her secrets, and she wants to know his. 

_Fuck,_ she thinks, and pulls her face away slightly so she can breathe. Killian stays frozen, his head held stiffly, breathing for a moment on her wet mouth. She shivers, and then pulls away completely, and when she opens her eyes, he looks as wrecked as she is. 

He swallows, and Emma feels it under her hand, and realizes she's still touching his neck. After a long moment of silence, thick with a different sort of tension, he grimaces. 

"I would ask," he says hoarsely, "if you wouldn't mind - "

"Sorry," she says quickly, pulling her hands away. He relaxes immediately, closing his eyes briefly, his jaw working back and forth again. He conspicuously does not look anywhere but at her face when he opens his eyes, and Emma bites the inside of her cheek, her whole body tingling like she's just jumped into an icy lake, or walked through a tunnel of prickly wind. 

"Perhaps," he says haltingly, and then doesn't finish. Knowing what he wants, in an eerie sort of way, Emma moves further away, and he relaxes even more. His gaze feels like a physical touch, however. He still hasn't looked away. 

"Quite the kiss," she manages, and picks up the cup. She's forgotten who it belongs to, at the current moment. He doesn't reply, still watching her with his hands clenched. "I'm not sure who owes who, anymore. I've lost track."

"For the best, I would say," he replies. He takes the cup out of her hand for his own drink. "What are you stealing, Emma? Tell me."

"An apple tree," Emma says, her lips numb from both the alcohol and the phantom pressure of the kiss, which she can swear she still feels. "An enchanted apple tree that grows poisoned apples. After Regina's death, it was given to Lady Merida for safekeeping. Queen Snow White thought it was too dangerous to keep in Misthaven, so she sent it to Dunbroch. It grows now in Castle Shieldaig, protected by the Blue Fairy's magic."

Killian regards her in somber silence, for a moment. "They should've destroyed it," he finally says darkly. "Why do you want it?"

"Because the poison is also an antidote," Emma says, feeling the truth slip from her lips easily, like he was always meant to know. "It cures madness. The madness Victor had."

Killian takes another slow drink of the rum, his hands white-knuckled around the cup. 

"I intend to steal an apple, and then destroy it myself," she finishes darkly, and thinks, _it's the closest I'll ever get to destroying her myself._ By the look on his face, he hears it loud and clear regardless. "You don't have to help me. Victor knew he wasn't strong enough, or sensible enough, to steal it himself, and he knew I would try, so he never told me. I found the answer in his journals after he died."

"He loved you, this Victor," Killian says. "Like a father."

"Sort of," Emma says wryly. "I've had several 'sort of' fathers, in my life. He was more like a weird friend."

"I see." He's retreated into silence again, a thoughtful one this time. "Lady Merida has a soft spot for me."

Emma's heart twinges. "Does she?"

"I did her a favor once. A rather nasty situation involving some flying monkeys." He grimaces. "Remind me to tell you that one when I'm sober."

"I will do."

"The Dire Forest is not the place you want to be, if Shieldaig is your destination," he says. "You'll waste weeks backtracking."

Emma nods, hardly daring to hope. "I didn't see an alternative. Your ship is headed towards the Dire Forest."

"It doesn't have to be. I am her captain, I decide where she goes."

"I wouldn't ask. I haven't asked."

"No, you haven't." He sets the cup down with a dull, hollow thud. "I didn't get to kill her either, you know."

Emma is quiet. The Evil Queen Regina, destroyer of lives, bitterly alone and resentfully defeated, took her own life when Emma was sixteen. The horns of Misthaven blew in triumph the day the news reached the capitol. People all over the kingdoms rejoiced, troops flooded into what little territory she'd had left to liberate her prisoners. Queen Snow White gave a speech that was reproduced in flyers and pamphlets as far as Agrabah. And Emma shut herself in her room for three days, not speaking or eating, drinking only the water that Victor pushed in through the window from outside, crying bitter tears that burned her cheeks as they fell. 

"A life, for a life, Emma Swan," Killian says. "The one you lost, and the one she didn't allow you to take. How's that for an unfinished circle?"

Emma presses the back of her hand to her eyes, laughing sadly. "Poetic. Isn't it?"

"Quite. Much like a war that never really ended." He sighs, looking suddenly much older. Closer to his actual age, Emma would bet. "At least not for me."

Emma moves her hand to her lips, closing her eyes. She wishes he would kiss her again. She thinks it would make them both feel better, but her heart is quivering, and her stomach feels like it's been twisted up into knots. She won't dare to ask. 

"I will take you there. We can discuss the particulars in the morning," he says, like it's already been decided, as if saying the words were just a formality. "Sleep. You're drunk, my darling. You look sunburnt, your cheeks are so warm."

"Sleep with me," Emma says, on impulse. She opens her eyes to his gentle smile, and flushes even more, but she wants it, and so she leaps. "Stay. Stay the night, in the bed with me."

"No," he says gently, reaching out to touch her cheek. "Ask me again. When you trust me more. Aye?"

Emma nods, not trusting her voice to speak. She sways a little as his hand leaves her face, and then swallows thickly. Maybe she is drunk. Maybe she's mad, too. Victor would certainly think so. Maybe Graham would too. 

"A few more stories should do the trick," he says, rising to his feet. Emma ducks her head, still kneeling on the floor, not wanting to watch him limp away. "What was his last name, Emma? You didn't mention."

"Victor?" Emma asks, opening her eyes. He's standing by the foot of the bed, where she'd been tied up, just hours ago. Strange, how quickly the whole world can change. She smiles, thinking of it. 

"No. Your huntsman. Graham."

"I don't know," Emma says, struck suddenly by this thing that she's never realized before. "I never knew his surname. Why?"

"I think I might've met him," he says thoughtfully, rubbing his knuckles beneath his chin. He turns, and graces her with another devastating smile. "Do you need help getting into bed? I can wake the parrot if you'd like."

"Don't you _dare,_ " Emma says, scrambling to her feet, and he laughs. It feels very good, to make him laugh. 

"As you wish," he says, and then he goes. Emma stands still by the desk, watching him close the door behind him. The lock sliding into place feels like an answer to a question. 

She stands there for a long moment, readjusting. Then she turns, to the desk, where the book is still lying open. It's a ledger, she sees, just as she'd thought. An account of money and goods - stolen money and goods, she realizes wryly, not having any particular moral obligation one way or the other - and the entry he'd written earlier is surprisingly legible, despite the crude instrument it'd been written in. It says: 

_Fifteen galleons of rum, eight chickens, aprox. seventeen (to twenty) pounds of gold (royal doubloon)., one magical artifact (tbd.), and one good lady (friendly). Misthaven._

She laughs out loud. _One good lady (friendly)._ An entry in a pirate's ledger - she feels almost proud. 

"Not a lady," she mutters, stumbling drunkenly over to the bed. Her thighs are still trembling, she feels hot and wound up tight inside, like a coiled spring. She shimmies out of her pantaloons and lies there in her underthings, drifting into sleep gently, in a bed that smells of muddy water. _One good lady (friendly)._ Emma's no lady, but she is a _lady_. And right now, on this night, she most definitely feels _good._

She sleeps all night, and wakes with the sun, the next day. Time to make another story, she thinks. 

.

**Author's Note:**

> It comes as an annoying and embarrassing surprise to both Captain Hook and Dr. Swan (as she insists on being called, despite the consternation of Doc May, the resident magical healer) that the parrot's vocabulary from this point onward is limited to _We're fucked! We're fucked!_ and _Sleep with me! In the bed!_ Needless to say, the parrot finds himself without the power of speech not soon after this revelation. While some of the crew is disappointed by this mysterious ailment (and the loss of a very useful informant for their poker games), the parrot does seem much more content now that the captain is no longer throwing things at him on a regular basis. Dr. Swan names him "Whale" and whittles him a perch out of an old chair, and all in all everyone is much happier.


End file.
